


Fragile Tension

by clocksworks



Category: Depeche Mode
Genre: 101, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24336250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clocksworks/pseuds/clocksworks
Summary: While on tour for Music for the Masses, the boys begin to feel the hard effects of life on the road. Unfortunately, the band's frustrations come to a head when Fletch insults Dave and Alan finally feels his temper beginning to fray.
Relationships: Dave Gahan/Alan Wilder
Kudos: 28





	Fragile Tension

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at Another Black Day.

Alan was never one to exaggerate, but after the show in Nashville, Dave came off the stage looking as though he had easily aged ten years during the short descent down the steps backstage. Alan was more than alarmed, because although they had all been rather poorly during this leg of the tour, Dave was now as white as a sheet, looking ready to pass out. His voice had been scratchy before the show, and the steroids had temporarily helped, but that was all they were – temporary. Now the problem was back with a vengeance, judging from the way Dave was wincing as he swallowed. Daryl appeared with a bottle of water and Dave couldn’t gulp it down fast enough, some of it spilling down his chin.

Alan grabbed the towel that Daryl handed him, mopping the sweat off his brow as he walked over to Dave. “Think you need a doctor.”

“...’m be fine.” Dave’s voice was barely a croak now, and Daryl shot Alan an alarmed look. “...gig was shite.”

“Thought it was alright,” Alan said, grateful that he had gotten better at lying over the years. Dave had given it his all during the gig – they all had – but his voice had given out during the encore of ‘Nothing’, and it was a good thing he had been nearing the end of the song. It was a number that was in the lowest ranges of his voice, and probably one that put a lot of strain on Dave’s vocal chords. “C’mon, it could have been worse.”

The backstage door opened, and for a moment the roar of the audience outside swelled and filled the room temporarily as Martin walked in, followed by a very pissed-off looking Fletch. Dave seemed to barely be aware of their presence, slumping into a chair with his head tilted back as Daryl ran to close the door again, shutting out the noise of the crowd once more.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Fletch demanded to know, ignoring the bottle of water that a roadie was holding out to him. “I can’t believe we weren’t booed off the stage!”

Martin turned away, the tiredness on his face visible even from across the room. Alan wiped his face again, trying to hold onto the slippery edges of his burgeoning irritation. “What are you on about now?” he asked shortly.

“The gig! The fucking gig! It was a disaster!” Fletch looked panicked and upset and furious all at once, starting to pace around the room. Adele, who had come in to tend to Martin, gave Fletch a wide berth, her eyeliner-rimmed eyes wide and wary as she scurried to sit beside Mart. Alan couldn’t really blame her.

“I thought it was quite alright,” Daryl said, most probably trying to make peace, although he was busy keeping a cautious eye on the all-too-silent Dave.

“Yeah Andy, give it a rest already, will you?” Martin said tiredly. The look on his face was a pretty good indication that this wasn’t the first time he had had to listen to Fletch’s post-gig bitching. “We’re all pretty knackered.”

At that point, Franksy burst through the backstage door, speaking grimly into one of the walkie-talkies that hung about his person. He breezed right through the room, then backtracked when he spotted Dave slouched in the chair, wheezing slightly. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked Alan, not waiting for a reply before speaking into the mouthpiece, “Gaz, I’m going to need a medic.”

“Roger,” came the buzzed reply.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Fletch’s voice was dripping with scorn. “We’ve all been working hard. Some people just haven’t been resting when they should.”

Martin ran a hand through his curls. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Alan only caught the tail end of his words as he turned towards the wall, hiding his frustration.

Alan set down the bottle and tilted his chin at Fletch. “Who exactly do you mean by ‘some people’, Fletch? Care to elaborate?” He knew he should just shut the fuck up and grab Dave and bring him back to the bus, then the hotel so he could just have some peace and quiet, but Alan was honestly dead tired and fed-up and pissed off, and the post-show adrenaline was still leaving him pretty wired and edgy, and he wanted to push Fletch, to see just how far he dared to go. If anything else, it was a good chance to let Fletch get all the resentment out of his system before they hit LA. They simply couldn’t afford to fuck up the Rose Bowl.

Fletch huffed out a sigh, and for a moment he looked just as tired and scared as any of them, probably scared that this was the last possible high they were ever going to get, and it was all going to go downhill from here. Icarus Syndrome, Daryl called it, and Alan didn’t really agree, but right now, it was quite fitting - they really seemed to be at a low point. “Y’know what, let’s just go back to the fucking hotel already.” Fletch just shook his head in disgust, finally accepting the water bottle.

“Good, you’re shutting up. Because we’re all sick of your whingeing,” Alan said, and he caught the spark of anger in Fletch’s sharp eyes. Daryl was already stepping forward, a hand out as though he was trying to get everyone to calm down, but Alan ignored him, sidestepping the poor bloke and walking up to Fletch. “I’m sick of your passive aggressive nonsense. Are we supposed to be able to decipher every black look on your face? If we can’t, then it’s not our fault. If you’re not happy about something, then bloody voice it. Otherwise, shut the fuck up.”

“Fine.” Fletch took off his black-rimmed glasses, wiping them furiously. “I’ll voice it! I’m frankly quite sick of the excuses.” He jabbed a finger at Dave, who had finally opened his bloodshot eyes and was blinking blearily at the commotion. “He says he’s always tired-”

“He is.” Alan really was trying to remain as calm as he could. “It’s a horrible strain on the vocal chords, you heard what the doctor said.”

“What did the doctor say about the coke, then?” Fletch said tauntingly. “What, take two hits and call me in the morning?”

If Alan hadn’t been so tired and exhausted, he might have been able to control his temper a little better, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dave’s head dip in embarrassment and shame, and he suddenly really wanted to break Fletch’s nose. They all knew the bit about the coke couldn’t be refuted, but mostly Alan was furious with Fletch for picking on Dave at a time when he was at his most vulnerable and couldn’t defend himself. Also, they were in a room full of people who weren’t ‘family’, and Alan couldn’t stall the ridiculous feeling that Fletch had just betrayed them all by talking openly about something they had all been skirting around during the entire tour.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Alan said, and Fletch whirled around, his face red with shocked anger. “Fat lot of use you are, just minging about not playing an instrument and you dare to criticise any of us-”

“Oh, I’m sorry I do useless things like manage the band while you stand around smirking at the girls and playing keyboards.” Fletch jerked his head towards Dave. “And being that one’s puppy dog.”

Before he could even think, Alan had already shoved Fletch backwards, making him bump into a stunned Daryl. “Fucking arsehole-”

Fletch was even quicker, pulling back a fist and suddenly Alan’s right ear exploded in pain. He was thrown back from the force of Fletch’s blow, but recovered quickly enough to land his fist on Fletch’s ribcage. And then they were grabbing and shoving at each other, Fletch yanking painfully on Alan’s shirt and part of his leather jacket, and Alan not giving up his grip on Fletch’s hair, both of them shouting and cussing and twisting around, trying to pull free. Then Alan felt someone else’s hands on him, and he thought he vaguely heard Franksy shouting, “Stop fighting!” and he sensed Daryl trying to wedge his way in and push them apart.

“Fucking-” Alan got one good pull in and Fletch howled out in pain before someone wrenched Alan’s hands away and he was being yanked backwards by someone, away from a furious Fletch who was being tugged in the opposite direction by Martin and Daryl. Alan turned, ready to shout at Franksy to let him go, but his words died in his mouth when he realised it was Dave holding him back. He forced himself to calm down, thinking of the breathing techniques that Jeri had taught him over the years. Fletch was still trying to wriggle free of Martin’s and Daryl’s grip, and Alan had to turn away or he would make a lunge for Fletch again.

“...’et’s go,” Dave said, and Alan felt like it was the most sensible thing he had heard all evening.

“Yeah, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

***

Alan’s ear was still stinging, and his neck hurt from where Fletch had yanked his jacket, pulling it down and straining his neck muscles. But otherwise, he was still in a lot better shape than Dave. By the time they reached the bus, it was him who was supporting Dave, not the other way around, and Alan had never been more glad to reach the bunks, pulling aside Dave’s curtain so he could crawl in to sleep. Dave let out a hoarse sigh as he melted into the pillows and mattress, his eyes closing in bliss. Alan couldn’t help reaching out to stroke the hair back from his friend’s face. Still, the action was more for himself than anything else – he was still positively vibrating with anger, and he needed something quiet and tender to soothe him.

“Al.” Dave had opened his eyes again, grinning wanly at him. “...featherweight champion of the world.”

“Don’t talk,” Alan said, brushing his knuckles over Dave’s forehead. “You sound like shit."

Dave chuckled, stretching a little in the cramped bunk. Alan had forgotten to let Dave change into something clean and dry, but seeing the bags under his eyes, he didn’t think Dave cared much about what he was wearing now. He started tugging on the sleeve of Alan’s jacket. “...get in here.”

Alan shrugged off his jacket, leaving it on his own bunk before climbing into the claustrophobic little space. Dave shifted over to make room for him, but they were still close enough that Alan could feel the sickish heat coming off Dave’s body. Later, once Dave was asleep, Alan was determined to go find that medic that Franksy had paged for. He let Dave slip an arm around him, and they laid there for a while in silence, listening to the beeping of someone’s digital watch from some other bunk.

“...think it’s worth it, Al?” Dave said, and Alan turned to face him. “..think all this is worth...fighting with mates?” He kept quiet for some time, then added, “..and all the other stuff?”

Alan didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what all the ‘other stuff’ was. Dave was fantastically gifted at getting distracted, and his efforts to settle down and have children had backfired on him, demanding more of his time and heart while the elusive sense of stability he had chased after ever since he was 11 still eluded his grasp. Alan didn’t see the coke and the women as a weakness of Dave’s character; he saw them as a symptom of the real weakness, a substitute for the giant hole that he was forever trying to fill. Alan knew he helped, that his friendship helped, but sometimes, he didn’t want to get sucked in and become Dave’s emotional crutch. Dave had to learn this for himself the same way Alan did – starving and hitting rock bottom and having nothing to lose anymore – but instead he turned to other easier outlets, and Alan supposed that he couldn’t blame his friend.

“I’d like to think it is,” Alan said, and somehow he felt a little sad at the idea that someday in the future, it might be Dave that he would be having a scuffle with, and not Fletch. This – their easy, heartfelt, thicker-than-blood friendship - could not go on forever, but in the meantime, it meant that Alan could still be there for Dave all that he could, without going insane on his behalf. “But we make choices. Between the right stuff, and the not-so-right stuff, yeah?”

Dave didn’t reply for the longest time, and when Alan turned to glance at him, he realised Dave had already fallen asleep. He waited a while longer, basking in the nearness of his friend, thinking that the future could not possibly get any worse – or better – than this. Icarus Syndrome, Daryl had said. Maybe Alan had to start checking whether his wings were made of wax.

“Medic,” he reminded himself, and he sighed as he clambered out of the now rather comfortable bunk. He shot one last glance at the sleeping Dave, smiling to himself before he disembarked, his footsteps echoing in the night.


End file.
